Ironic reconciliation
by Hermes right hand dude
Summary: John and Sherlock meet at the graveyard. But it's not exactly a happy 'reunion'... Rated T for angst and the feels. Post-reichenbach fall.


_Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock but if I did, I'd make TRF even more traumatic/ dramatic. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!_

_Warning: Angst like you cannot believe. In my opinion, that is. Still, there's some angst._

* * *

There was a storm out. But John wasn't affected by this. Instead, he welcomed it. The mood was fitting. He tilted his head back, letting the raindrops mingle freely with the tears streaming down his face. John was standing at a grave. Sherlock Holmes's grave, to be precise.

There were flowers decorating it. An assortment of beautiful flowers; red, white, yellow, basically every color imaginable. Except black. Never black. John fidgeted with the revolver in his hands. He was feeling jittery. Nervous about what was to come. Was he really going to go through with this?

He thought back to when Sherlock was with him. Before the… John couldn't bring himself to say it.

_Before the fall._

It was amazing. John gave a soft chuckle at the memories. He remembered the first case they solved. The thrill of chasing criminals down London. He remembered the little sparkle in Sherlock's eyes when he praised his deductions. In a strange way, he fixed him. Sherlock Holmes fixed John Hamish Watson, ex-army doctor, sufferer of PTSD. He accomplished the impossible. John thought back to when he first realized he didn't need his cane anymore. He was ecstatic. And that was all thanks to Sherlock.

Yet, unknowingly, Sherlock also destroyed John. When he took the fall that was the day all the healing was put to waste. John's nightmares came back with a vengeance. Only these nightmares revolved around falling. John's limp came back, worse than ever. He couldn't even walk one step without his cane. All efforts of healing flushed down the drain.

John put the revolver to his head, pressed against his temple. He won't pull the trigger yet. He couldn't seem to. All he could think about were the final moments; how he watched his best friend die, and couldn't do a bloody thing about it. John's remorse slowly gave way to anger. He wished he was able to kill Moriarty for what he'd done.

_This phone call… it's my note. That's what people do don't they? Leave a note. _

He remembered the feelings of shock, of confusion behind his reply. _Leave a note when?_

John fell to the ground, slumped against the grave, not caring about the flowers he was squashing, choking back on the sobs he didn't realize he was holding in. His body wracking forward as he cried. He just wanted to get him out of his head. Why couldn't he stop thinking about this, why couldn't he stop thinking about the fall?

_Goodbye, John._ And Sherlock was leaning over the edge, coat billowing in the wind, arms spread out. For a desperate moment, John thought he was going to fly. But instead, he fell over the edge, and started falling, falling, falling.

John dropped the revolver onto the dirt as he put his head between his knees. He placed each hand on either side of his head, desperately trying to will away the image of Sherlock's head cracked on the asphalt, blood trickling out in a gentle stream…

If anyone happened to be in the graveyard, they would see a man in his early forties on the ground, wearing a jacket with patches on the shoulders and a blue scarf, screaming "Make it stop. Please make it stop." over and over. But it wouldn't stop, couldn't stop. John's mind conjured more images, more memories, all not even the slightest bit nice. He remembered the funeral, the sombre faces. He remembered the insincere condolences from Donovan and Anderson. They even had the audacity to say that Sherlock didn't deserve a funeral. Though later on, they walked out of the funeral home, with their faces stinging.

There was grieving alright. Just that it was only John, Mrs Hudson, Molly and Lestrade who did the grieving. And maybe Angelo, John wasn't so sure. Mycroft didn't even bother to go. This act hurt John in ways he couldn't fathom. Mycroft Holmes didn't attend his own brother's funeral. That only proved what a machine he was.

John cried the most, well, along with Mrs Hudson. But that was understandable; they were the ones who had to deal with the all too silent apartment. No more violin sounds in the middle of the night, no more shouts of "I'M BORED!" accompanied by more gunshots fired at the wall, no more heads in the fridge, but most importantly, no more Sherlock.

A security guard watched John, and was starting to walk towards him. John didn't notice him, but the man was unusually tall, or at least taller than John, but then again everyone was. He had milky, alabaster-like skin, which contrasted perfectly with his black curly hair. Pale green eyes fixed on John. Fear and panic started flickering in them when he realized what John was about to do. He started running towards him, desperate to reach him. But he was too far away.

John stood up shakily yet determined. No. It all had to end. He couldn't keep on living like this.

Pressing the nozzle of the revolver snugly to his temple, John faced the grave. He gave the grave a tender smile, one which had shown that this man, this absolutely, maddeningly loyal man, had enough of this suffering. "You didn't come back Sherlock, so I'm coming to you." He looked up at the sky, the grey clouds unleashing heaven's fury. The raindrops soaked John to the bone. He didn't mind. He was imagining the heavens parting, letting Sherlock fly towards him, with his angel wings, coming to bring him 'home'.

"I'm coming to you." John smiled, a lone tear trailing down his cheek. John pulled the trigger, hoping to be reconciled with his best friend, forevermore.

* * *

The security guard didn't make it in time. He ran at full speed, shouting all too late "JOHN!"

The security guard stood before John's lifeless body. He took off his cap and fell to his knees, cradling John in his arms. Pale violinist hands stained with the crimson blood of John H. Watson. He whispered to the corpse, " J-John. Please, don't be dead. I'm here now, please don't be dead..." But dead was he. Brain matter was splattered over his grave as evidence, as a sign of what happened.

The rain poured down even harder. It was like God and his angels were mocking him, saying _You faked your death Sherlock, but is **t**__**his** fake? Shame, what a shame..._

Sherlock rocked with the body back and forth. "Please let this be a dream, please let this be a dream... " He prayed, over and over. Unfortunately, it wasn't a dream. It was real. And he was too late. Sherlock wanted to surprise John, to tell him he was back, but he was too late... too late...

Sherlock sat there in the pouring rain, holding John's body tightly to his. He didn't care about the rain. He didn't care about the blood. He only cared about the fact that he had lost his best friend, his only true friend. And he was never coming back. And it was all his fault.

Sherlock pressed sweet kisses to John's forehead, whispering "I love you." repeatedly, woeful for not telling him when he was alive. Sherlock placed his forehead to John's and wept. The tears that were streaming down his face were a sign that the highly-functioning sociopath was truly a man of many feelings, and was now a man of true pain and sorrow.

They remained like that, to be found the next morning.

* * *

_DO NOT KILL ME! I'm so sorry for that but I was feeling kinda depressed and I had to get it out of my system. Sorry if it was too dramatic, just felt like adding the drama. First Sherlock fanfic so go easy, if you can. Flames, if you must. It'll just make me a better writer. :-)_

_Partial credit goes to **xxsyastachexx** for part of the plot. Please check her out! As always, reviews appreciated! _

_HERMES RIGHT HAND DUDE OUT!_


End file.
